


scent of sex and new found glory

by hamiltrashed



Series: flooded my senses [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Kink, Senses, Sexual Fantasy, Sorta fluffy porn, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex does the laundry and takes the liberty of doing something a little more self-indulgent than just washing Thomas's clothing. </p><p>(Or, the one where the laundry is not the only thing that's dirty.)</p><p>Senses Series | <b>Sense</b>: <i>smell</i>. </p><p>[Recently changed my pseud from <b>s0urw0lf</b> to hamiltrashed, in case that confused anyone!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	scent of sex and new found glory

**Author's Note:**

> A plot bunny attacked me earlier this evening and said hey, do a PWP ficlet series based on the five senses. I said okay. And then I knocked this out in a couple of hours. Thanks to my wonderful beta, Michelle_A_Emerlind, for doing a quick readthrough and to Skarlatha as well since they both said 'yes, write the thing' when I was worried nobody would be into reading this.

The flannel is soft between his fingers. Warm. Pilling and worn thin. There’s a hole in the middle of one of the thighs, and Alex touches the frayed edges of it before making a move to toss them into the washer. And then he pauses. Rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger again. Half-smiles.

Alex’s initial thought is a perfectly innocent one: he’ll need to make a stop on his way home from work on Monday to pick Thomas up some new boxers. He has plenty of others, of course, but the flannels are his favourite, hence the wear on them. Thomas will appreciate it, he knows. It’s the little things he tries to do, like buying Thomas’s favourite cereals and his very particular and hard-to-find, expensive brand of coffee, that earns him those sweet morning kisses, the ones that have replaced the once begrudging I-love-you-but-I-won’t-tell-you kisses. And Alex lives for those kisses.

His second thought, however, is really his foremost one, the one that _really_ made him pause. He knows this, but he’d forced his mind to something nicer first, something that would ease the little feeling of shame, of guilt, at what had come to mind when he first plucked Thomas’s boxers from the basket of dirty laundry.

Alex swallows, licks his lips and lets out a little hesitant breath. _Don’t you dare_ , he tells himself. _It’s weird._ And it is weird. A little bit indecent. More than a little bit dirty. So wrong that it almost seems… right. _And when_ , he asks himself, _have you ever not done what feels right?_

His hands tremble with the fabric between them. His eyes trace each band of colour in the tartan, and he gives himself one more second to stop himself from indulging what is clearly a moment of madness. But Alex would be lying if he said he wasn’t already growing hard just thinking about it. He’d be lying if he said the impulse wasn’t so strong that he already knows he can no more prevent himself from doing this than prevent himself from breathing. And breathe he does.

He presses Thomas’s boxers against his face. Breathes in. Exhales. He moans without giving himself permission to, a noise that comes from way down deep in his chest. And oh god, it’s good. The material smells the way their bedroom smells after a fuck. It smells musky and sweet, like cologne and sweat and _come_. And before he can even dream of stopping, of not letting this go further, Alex lets a hand roam down to the front of his PJ bottoms, lets himself _imagine_ , lets himself remember.

Alex’s mind drifts to the other night, the night when he was half asleep but Thomas was handsy, and before he knew it, he was wide awake with Thomas’s fingers in his ass, curling inside him and reaching and finding that spot that makes him downright howl. His toes had curled with pleasure, his feet braced against the mattress for leverage while he fucked back on Thomas’s hand, whining and begging and so, so needy. The room had smelled just like this after, heavy with heat and sex and something that, as soon as he’d come, made Alex want to do it all over again, all night, forever.

Alex leans back against the washer, pulls his cock free of his pajama bottoms, strokes slow, bites his lip and whimpers. He inhales again, lets his thoughts wander further back, to the night in the backseat. Alex had been antsy for hours on the drive down to Monticello, body stiff from sitting in the car so long, but also restless with want. He’d snuck a hand across to Thomas’s lap, fingertips dancing up the inside of his thigh, so close to tugging his zipper down before Thomas had smacked his hand away, chided him about accidents and dying in a ditch, “all because you’re horny.”  
  
But that hadn’t lasted long. They were an hour away when Thomas had declared he couldn’t wait anymore, when he’d pulled over on a dark, deserted road, and fucked Alex quick and rough and exceedingly filthy in the backseat. Thomas’s car had carried their scent for two weeks, as if they’d fucked themselves into every inch of the leather. He’d ended up having to have the interior professionally cleaned. They’d laughed themselves half-sick at the look on the face of the man who’d washed them from the upholstery.

Alex has always liked the way that afterward, everything smells like his idea of heaven. Maybe it’s perverse that his dream of the afterlife consists of those post-coital moments when he’s lying next to Thomas, too warm to do anything but breathe, too weak to say anything but Thomas’s name, again and again, like a military cadence leftover from when they used to war with one another. From when they used to say hateful but nuanced things that, if read carefully enough, meant something like _just once, I need you_. Deep down in the gut where all intuition rests, they’d always known it would never be just once. And if Alex tries hard enough, he can remember each and every time.

His hips rock forward. His thumb stroking over the head of his cock teases out sticky droplets of precome. Inhale. Exhale.

The first time comes to mind now. And oh, that first time… god, it had been something else. They’d been angry at each other. Alex doesn’t recall exactly why, can’t remember _that_ part, although it hardly matters. Back then, the colour of the paint on the walls could be a point of contention, as long as it gave them cause to yell. And they’d been yelling for sure. Alex thinks he’d found himself at Thomas’s door just _to_ yell at him. They’d been all-out _screaming_ … and a moment later, in the blink of an eye, they’d been fiercely kissing. Undressing. Fucking in Thomas’s bed.

Alex had catalogued the scent of them in his mind after it was over, as he lay spread across the mattress, exhausted with holding onto all the loathing, exhausted with how Thomas had just fucked all the dislike right out of him. He could think of nothing but how much he knew he would always crave this as he breathed them in. He could think of nothing but Thomas.

Somewhere in the last gasp of their dying ill will toward each other, a spark of something else burst into being. They call it love now, but then, it had just been a sliver of hope that there could be something else for them. That against all odds, what they’d each really needed, for the longest time, was each other.

It smells now like it did then, like it always has. Alex’s fingers clutch at the fabric and he presses it hard against his mouth, his nose, breathes Thomas in like a drug, body quivering at just how fast it utterly intoxicates him. Thomas’s name comes out in a muffled gasp, and before Alex can tempt himself back from the edge, his hips are bucking away from the washer and he’s coming all over his hand. His back arches, spine bowing with intense satisfaction, and Alex has to brace himself against the cool metal so his knees don’t give out on him.

It takes him a long few minutes to come down, and he grins what he knows is a wicked little grin when he uses Thomas’s boxers to clean himself up, to swipe stray droplets of come from the hardwood floor. Content now, he tosses them into the washer, covers up only the tiniest bit of shame with a pile of their other clothes. He’s just shutting the lid and turning on the machine when the front door opens, and Thomas noisily makes his way into the apartment with bags of groceries.

“Be nice if someone helped me,” he shouts.  
  
“Busy!” Alex calls back. “Be nice if someone did their own laundry for once!”  
  
But he’s lying to himself, to Thomas. He doesn’t think he’ll ever let him do his own laundry again. Thomas comes down the hall and pokes his head into the laundry room. He blows a kiss at Alex. “I got pizza. Come eat before it gets cold.” And he disappears again. But only for a moment. A second later, he sticks his head back in the room. “Smells like sex in here.”  
  
Alex shrugs. “Really?” He fights back a smirk. “You must be imagining things.”  
  
“Mhmm,” Thomas says, and his voice, his eyes are far too knowing. He’s always known far too much. Always read Alex like a book. And maybe someday, Alex will tell him the whole truth of what he's just done.  
  
Until then… well, there’s always another Saturday. Always laundry to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from "I Want To Save You" by Something Corporate, one of my all time fave bands, and honestly, if you're not listening to SoCo you're totally doing life wrong, my friends.


End file.
